


Broken

by vienn_peridot



Series: Paths to Redemption [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Flashbacks, Helplessness, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Trust, Oral Sex, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Public Sex, Rape Aftermath, non-consensual public display
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:19:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6032860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Dai Atlas had refused to let Wing take the punishment meant for Drift?</p><p>[What-if scenario of my fic '<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3936202/chapters/8819107">Penance</a>']</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [Prologue] Sympathy for the Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveDrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveDrift/gifts), [gatekat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatekat/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Penance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3936202) by [vienn_peridot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot). 



> Gatekat, LoveDrift, I did the thing.  
> A little koha in return for all the amazing stories you two have shared. Thank you for your writing *heart emoji*

“Dai Atlas, please. _Listen_ to me.”

“My decision is final.”

“You don’t _understand_ , this will do more harm than good. Let me take his place.”

“And what could he _possibly_ learn from that? You can’t expect me to believe that watching someone else suffer in his place would teach a _Decepticon_ anything!”

“He’s different. The city is changing him. He _would_.”

“Regardless of what you believe I have seen little to prove that that is the case. His punishment is tomorrow. You will bring him.”

“You’re making a _mistake_.”

“Shouting at me won’t change my mind, Knight. You will bring him at the appointed time. _Dismissed_.”

Drift pretended he hadn’t overheard, of course. He was still much better at sneaking around than his jailers realised and was back in place long before Wing appeared, flightpanels quivering with suppressed rage that Drift could read far too well.

“Did someone cancel playtime?” He couldn’t resist needling the jet, even though he knew Wing had just tried to take some unknown punishment on his behalf.

_Idiot. I can take anything these soft-sparked civilians deal out. I’m not as weak as he thinks I am._

Instead of snapping at him like a sane mech, Wing just have him a look of mingled sorrow and pity, gesturing for Drift to follow as they left the Citadel and headed out into the city.


	2. [Chapter One] For Whom the Bell Tolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing is treating Drift strangely.  
> The Decepticon finds out why when he discovers the punishment he faces for attempting to leave the City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for Prologue was '[Sympathy for the Devil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tBZFQf--50)' by Guns N' Roses.  
> Song for this chapter is '[For Whom the Bell Tolls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TStMsQhwceI)' by Metallica

Drift woke confused and annoyed.

Today he was supposed to be facing some sort of punishment for breaking the rules. _Apparently_ they had a thing against people trying to leave the City, especially as many times as Drift had. That they knew about, anyway.

_You can’t put me in a cage and not expect me to try to escape. Idiots._

He’d actually succeeded in reaching the desert multiple times before being caught and dragged back by Wing or another of the Knights and he suspected that Wing hadn’t been dobbing him in. Enough of the other Knights had caught Drift by now that Dai Atlas was fed up enough to inflict a Knightly chastisement on the Decepticon. From what Drift had been able to find out, the punishment was supposed to be corporal and categorically non-lethal.

Of course you wouldn’t have known this from Wing’s behaviour. If a mech went by the way Drift’s personal prison guard had been acting then they would think Drift was facing execution.

Instead of spending the previous afternoon training (read: Wing kicking Drift’s aft all around a training room until neither of them could move) they’d spent the entire afternoon going everywhere in the city Drift had ever expressed even the slightest interest in.

They spent hours at the racetrack even though Drift was the only one stretching his wheels; Wing just sat in the stands and watched with this stupid sad look on his face. That was followed by a soak in the geothermal pools and a thorough detailing of the kind that made Drift feel wonderfully clean and pampered without making him look too fancy; exactly the kind the liked best.

All throughout the day Wing had continued to give him those stupid sad looks whenever he thought Drift wasn’t watching; even his Field had been subdued, as if he was giving a condemned mech his last requests. Drift _had_ hoped that the guilt would make Wing tell him what was coming, but he hoped in vain. No matter how many times he tried to pry details of the penance from Wing the Knight just wouldn’t answer. He would even acknowledge the question, acting like Drift hadn’t spoken or changing the subject to something else.

Every. Single. Time.

It _was_ odd that Wing was going to such extreme lengths to indulge Drift without saying why he was doing it. It was obviously because of the kind of punishment Drift was facing, even though the speedster thought Wing was seriously overdoing it. _Nothing_ these smooth-plated pacifists could do to him would come anywhere near what he’d endured in the Dead End or on the front lines of the war.

Not that he was going to complain about the special treatment, this time.

It was rather nice.

_No way in Pit I’m telling him that, though._

Wing was _still_ acting weird when Drift finally decided to get up, wandering out to join the jet on the balcony of the jet’s apartment (Drift’s lavish prison cell) to watch artificial dawn spread over the underground city.

The Knight gave him a weak little half-smile when he noticed Drift approaching, silently handing him a cube of fuel. Drift took the cube with a nod and sipped once before staring at the fuel, surprise rippling through his Field before he could suppress the emotion.

He knew for a _fact_ that Wing preferred his morning fuel almost undrinkably tart and had inflicted the same thing on Drift to ‘wake him up’ every single morning that he’d had been stuck here. Today was different. Today the fuel Wing handed him was heavy and salt-sweet; Drift’s favourite kind.

The first thrill of apprehension coiled through Drift’s frame as he finished the fuel and followed Wing out of the apartment but he subdued the anxiety easily, confident in his ability to withstand anything Dai Atlas decided to do to him.

Wing led the way with uncharacteristic silence, Field withdrawing as he took Drift to a part of the Citadel the speedster had never seen before.

They were so deep in the complex that all the frames he could see had Greatswords at their backs.

_A Knights-only area, huh? Fancy that._

Wing’s flightpanels shivered and he shot a glance at Drift as they entered a huge foyer-type area. His Field bushed against Drift’s briefly, roiling in a disturbing way. Trails of scuffs on the floor showed Drift that this was a major thoroughfare for foot traffic in this part of the Citadel, not that he could do much with the information except file it away for later.

Instead of following one of the scuffed floor-lanes out of the huge space, Wing angled their path across the place, approaching a group that was dominated by the familiar figure of Dai Atlas who towered over the smaller frames of other Knights clustered around him. There was also a medic Drift recognised from his regular post-training visits to the Citadel’s medical unit. For some reason Wing insisting on having his dents pounded out so Drift could face each aft-kicking session without the previous day’s injuries to contend with.

 _A_ medic? _Do they_ really _think I’m that fragile?_

As they approached the group Wing’s frame slowly tensed, his armour alternately locking down to protect his substructure and flaring in a display of aggression that seemed to be focused on the huge blue-plated form of Dai Atlas. His Field was almost non-existent, although Drift managed to catch a brief burst of determination and carefully-controlled anger as the jet stopped within easy speaking distance of the group and Drift halted a few steps behind him, trying to assess the situation.

_So is this a public beating or am I getting pilloried?_

“Dai Atlas, as the Knight responsible for the Decepticon known as Drift, I once again formally offer myself in his place for this penance.” Wing’s voice was hard and determined and he spoke loud enough to be heard halfway across the huge vestibule.

Drift was aware of mechs stopping and turning to watch the battle of wills between the two Knights; one massive and disapproving, the other small and determined. From the twitching lipplates here and there some of them obviously found the contrast between Wing and Dai Atlas just as funny as Drift did.

“As before your offer is declined, Knight Wing.” Dai Atlas’ voice was impassive, his Field thick with disapproval that seemed to have no effect on Wing that Drift could see.

Even mechanisms halfway across the vestibule seemed to feel the way the massive triplechanger drew the invisible mantle of his authority around himself. It hung thick in the air, heavy and oppressive and despite this Wing _still_ didn’t back down. The jet’s armour flared and his Field filled with determination. Drift recognised that particular flavour of stubbornness, realising that they would end up stuck there all day if Wing got going. Someone was going to have to step in. A quick glance around showed that nobody looked as if willing to get between the two dangerous fighters so Drift figured it would have to be him.

_I want to get this stupid slagging punishment thing done with before afternoon training; we missed it yesterday with Wing’s weirdness._

“It’ll be fine, Wing.” Drift said, swaggering forward to stand beside the Knight and even placing a hand on the jet’s turbine so he had something to grab and use to restrain the idiot if he really _did_ make a lunge for Dai Atlas. “There’s no need to be such a flickering soft-spark. There’s no _way_ a bunch of pacifists can top ‘Con discipline.” Drift raised his optics to meet Dai Atlas’ gaze and sneered up at the triplechanger. “Bring it; I can take anything you dish out.”

Absolute horror jolted through Wing’s EMF but all Dai Atlas did was raise an optical ridge at Drift.

“So be it.” He said, moving aside.

“ _No_ , Drift.” Wing hissed urgently, grabbing the Decepticon by the arm and bodily turning him to face the jet before he could see whatever Dai Atlas had been standing in front of. “Please, you _don’t_ want to do this.”

Sick to death of the way Wing coddled him, Drift growled and shook the jet off far more roughly than he needed to.

“Frag off, Wing. You _don’t_ know what I want and you _don’t_ _know me_.” Drift snarled through bared fangs, turning away from the stricken jet to see what Dai Atlas’ frame had been hiding from him.

When Drift saw… _it_ … his tank momentarily dropped into his pedes before rising back to his proper place filled with pure, unadulterated disgust that churned outward to meet the boiling rage pouring from his Spark. The combination of emotions had his internals threatening to purge his morning fuel all over the floor in front of his pedes.

 _That is_ beyond _perverse_. _What the slag is_ wrong _with these mechs?!_

The _thing_ was a short column supporting a clear plas-glass or glassteel display box that looked like it was about the right size for a mech Drift’s size to fit in if he knelt, with plenty of vertical wiggle room. It was probably a little taller than it needed to be and the reason for this was sitting right in the middle of the transparent cage in full view of everyone present. Drift assessed it with an experienced optic, evaluating the dimensions of the false spike and coming to a not-entirely-satisfactory conclusion.

It would fit.

_Not the biggest thing I’ve had shoved in me but it’s still not gonna be fun._

Not that valve penetration had ever been fun.

As soon as Drift had been able he’d commandeered a Decepticon Medbay, ripping his own valve array out and welding the secondary covers shut, reinforcing them with some temp-patches that had integrated with his frame over time to create a sturdy barrier no medic had been crazy enough to suggest doing anything about.

_One good thing about where I came from; you learn how to do alright improv surgery on yourself or you die._

Of _course_ these idealistic idiots had removed the barrier he’d created as well as the thick clump of metallic scar tissue that had formed behind it; replacing everything with a brand new valve array. Something he _hadn’t_ asked for and _definitely_ didn’t want.

 _So_ this _was why they did it? It wasn’t their crazy fragging altruism after all. These mechs are_ sick _._

Drift let everyone within range of his Field feel the depth of his contempt as spoke.

“Somehow I’m not fragging surprised.”


	3. [Chapter Two] The Struggle Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift's punishment begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is '[The Struggle Within](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0XTcN3T_ZU)' by Metallica.

Drift’s sneer didn’t leave his faceplates once throughout Dai Atlas’ pompous explanation of the twisted reasoning behind this so-called ‘penance’. He filled his Field with all the scorn he felt for these supposedly pure Knights as the medic handed him solidified fuel to swallow. Drift recognised the slow-release crystals that would melt in his tank and keep him energised throughout this farce and knocked them back, swallowing without chewing while Dai Atlas lectured him on the purpose of this punishment.

_‘Appreciate the value of social connection’, my left aftplate. They’re just a bunch of fragging perverts_ ; _worse than those Senate mecha_.

Then the medic asked him to sit in the open side of the box.

Knowing what was about to happen, knowing that there was no way to escape it made Drift’s tanks churn. Long-suppressed memory files rose to choke him as he obeyed, helpless rage joining the disgust in his Field. Nobody reacted; they seemed to expect his reaction and ignored it.

Then medic knelt at Drift’s pedes and quietly asked the speedster to bare himself.

With the ease of the buymech he had been Drift spread his legs and opened his pelvic armour, triggering the protective covering of his valve at the same time. The connections responded sluggishly; he’d had no reason or incentive to actually _use_ the new part and encourage his frame to restore the connections properly. The secondary cover of his new valve array finished its sequence long before his pelvic armour did; Drift honestly couldn’t remember opening the valve section of his armour more than a handful of times in the millions of years since he’d finished recovering from his self-surgery.

_Yeah, I’m not surprised it’s slow._

He let his optics slide to Wing, wondering if the jet had known about his replacement part. It was kinda obvious, given that Drift’s overactive repair nanites had also formed an obvious ridge of scar tissue in the protoform around the replacement unit despite the excellent care the medics had taken when installing it. If _that_ wasn’t enough to make it that the part had been replaced the colour was still off, his own protoform and nanites being slow to infiltrate the graft surrounding the detested part.

Wing’s optics were fixed on Drift’s open valve alright, but the feeling of smugness within Drift’s Spark faded when he saw shock in the jet’s optics instead of the lust he expected. It made Drift defensive and he fought the irrational urge to cross his legs and cover himself like some prude who’d never heard of fragging.

_What the frag is_ his _problem, anyway?_

Drift had expected the medic to give him a brief visual exam and then tell him to hop on the false spike. He hadn’t anticipated seeing the mech take a large container from his subspace.

_What?!_

He didn’t try to hide his confusion as the medic opened the container to reveal something that looked like thick, off-white jelly.

“I am going to prepare your valve.” The medic explained, using two fingers to scoop up some of the substance. “The purpose of this penance is not to cause physical injury. This lubricant is formulated to help soften and relax the membranes and mechanisms of a new array, such as yours.”

There it was. His _new_ array. It was out in the open now.

If anyone hadn’t known before, now they all knew that their medics had given Drift a brand new valve for them to punish him with.

“Just so we’re clear I never fragging asked you to replace it.” Drift snarled, rejection clear in his Field as the medic began slowly massaging the lubricant into the outer folds of his valve. “As soon as I get out of this prison its coming _right back out_.”

That got no reaction from the medic although some of the Knights looked disturbed. Wing was looking away, hands fisted at his sides and flightpanels twitching. Drift leaned back on his hands and spread his legs a little wider so the medic had more room to work, tilting his helm back to stare up at the ceiling of the open atrium soaring far overhead and doing his best to ignore the slow massage going on at the apex of his thighs.

_Just like a customer. Inhale and exhale. Don’t think about it_.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to fake anything, because that costs extra and you fraggers aren’t even paying me for this in the first place.” He snarked at the ceiling, unable and unwilling to suppress the desire to strike back even if it was just with words. “Let me know when you’re done down there, I’m gonna have a nap.”

Offlining his optics, Drift began detaching himself from his frame. He invoked the same mental split he’d used to survive so long in the Dead End, pretending that whatever was happening to his valve was happening to someone else. The new valve was an annoyance, it wasn’t broken in the useful ways his old one had been, but Drift could endure.

_It’s just your frame. They’re not touching your Spark_.

Accustomed as he was to taking large spikes in a single, brutal thrust Drift actually snorted in undisguised contempt when the medic eased one lubricant-coated finger into his passage.

His arrogance was short-lived.

As the medic systematically stretched Drift’s callipers and checked his valve lining and nodes –using a staggering amount of the artificial lubricant to make up for the fact that Drift’s valve was about as responsive as that of a corpse- a horrible tingling warmth began to spread through the speedster’s valve components.

_What the frag? No, this can’t be happening! I_ can’t _be getting turned on by this!_

By the time the medic declared Drift ready for the next stage of the penance the Decepticon was burning with humiliation and the unfamiliar heat pulsing out from his crotch. His spike was pressing against the inside of its housing in reaction to the arousal the medic had forced into his frame but Drift would be damned before he anyone see that he’d gotten hard from being clinically finger-fragged in front of a crowd.

_Autonomics. It’ll be autonomics._

Stiffly he pulled himself up, turned and crawled into the box, avoiding meeting anyone’s optics as he positioned himself over the false spike. Not caring about the damage he could do, Drift dropped himself onto the dry dildo in one sharp motion. Even though he was out of practice his skill hadn’t rusted and the blunt head shoved through his external folds, catching and pulling at them as he used the full weight of his frame to force the false spike deep inside himself.

To his eternal horror it didn’t feel entirely bad, his traitorous frame actually _welcoming_ the firm shaft of the dildo; untested callipers spread without issue and nodes reported the pressure and texture of the interface aid as something _good_.  He stopped half-way as instructed, fighting the urge to purge his tanks as the unmistakable sensation of the new valve actually _producing lubricant_ filled his awareness. Some gathered at the opening of his valve and ran down to puddle at the base of the dildo.

Drift wanted to cry.

Two Knights came forward to bind him; elbows to thighs and thighs to calves. Drift thought he could feel something like sympathy in their EM Fields but he was too caught up in revulsion at his frame to care. They withdrew, one of them saying something he didn’t hear.

Then the box closed.

All sound, all unfiltered airflow, all EMF contact gone.

Cut off in an instant.

It was enough to shock Drift into forgetting to brace himself and he slid the rest of the way down the false spike. The smooth slide and fullness in the new valve battered Drift with _feels good/wrong/pleasure/disgust_ and he choked on a moan, losing control of his spike panel as he struggled to keep from making any more embarrassing sounds. He pressurised instantly, familiar sensation almost lulling him into believing this was a nightmare, until he tried to shield his crotch from view with his hands and the ropes binding him restricted the movement and brought him crashing back to reality.

_No no no no I don’t want this. I can’t do this. NO!_

Drift started wriggling, fighting the ropes, hoping to snap them by sheer physical strength or fray them on the edges of his armour just enough so that he could _break_ them. They held firm and Drift felt a wild, desperate keen building in his vocaliser as he tried to break free. His struggles shifted his hips over the false spike, pressing the firm shaft against the walls of his valve. There was a texture to the surface that slid over the nodes lining the inside, triggering a physical reaction he was helpless to resist.

The overload was inevitable, ripping through his protesting frame with the concussive force of an anti-aircraft round going up in his face.

One of the more disgusting quirks of the speedster frametype was a tendency towards extremely messy valve overloads. Drift had never experienced this before and to feel it now unnerved him completely. He panicked and froze, Spark spinning wildly and mind contracting to a single point of pure misery as he hyperventilated.

There was white moving in front of his optics but Drift didn’t see it, couldn’t see it. His entire existence narrowed to the horrible feeling between his legs and the high, muffled scream that was his terror given voice and forced out through clenched and bared denta.


	4. [Chapter Three] Love the Way You Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift's suffering doesn't go unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: [Love the Way You Lie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uelHwf8o7_U), Eminem ft Rihanna.

The rest of their original group had left the site of the penance.

It was a public one, after all. There was no need for an official witness.

Even Wing didn’t have to stay, but he was even more determined to prove Drift with what crumbs of support he could after the revelation about the speedster’s self-mutilation. He watched with growing dread as Drift struggled against the bindings. This was what Wing had tried to prevent. It was wrong, so very wrong and he had no way of stopping it.

_Primus below, he removed his own array?! And we gave him a new one against his will, only to do_ this? _That… that goes against everything we’re supposed to stand for._

When Drift overloaded in a massive flood of lubricant Wing thought the worst was over, that maybe now Drift would calm a little. Overload produced certain inescapable physiological effects, one of which was relaxation and a mild euphoria that he hoped might help Drift endure.

He was wrong.

The speedster’s reaction was as horrific as it was outwardly serene. The only sign of Drift’s distress was in his wide, staring optics and the grimace that twisted his features, baring his pointed denta. His frame was frozen, locked in place by what Wing knew was extreme suffering despite being unable to feel the speedster’s EM Field.

Drift didn’t react when Wing flattened his hands to the transparent substance of the box, trying to make optic contact. Even when the jet stood on the toepieces of his pedes and stretched up to get his facpelates directly in front of those of the bound mech Drift just stared right through him, utterly insensible to the world.

_This is bad. Very, very bad._

Dropping back to stand normally, Wing sighed and rested his forehelm against the glass separating him from Drift.

_He’s_ never _going to trust us now_.

Wing heard someone approaching, familiar pedesteps that he ignored. As Drift wasn’t a Knight everyone had been told to keep the customary teasing of the penitent to chaste touches only. The other Knight didn’t speak, coming to stand beside Wing and visually examine the speedster. Wing didn’t bother controlling his Field, letting the other Flightframe feel the full extent of his dismay. By now Drift’s spike was completely depressurised; retracting in what was clearly an autonomic sequence as his consciousness disconnected itself from the situation.

“What happened?” Blackbird’s glyphs were subdued, EMF sober in the face of what was happening.

“Dai Atlas wouldn’t accept my substitution.” Wing said quietly, hoping his voice wouldn’t carry. “I knew some little about his past, learned more when he had nightmares. But _Primus_ , I swear I didn’t know that he… he…” Wing couldn’t finish, couldn’t voice the glyphs.

“This isn’t good.” The seeker said needlessly, wings rattling out an angry sequence of clicks. “I will spread word to pretend he isn’t there; the fewer optics he has on him the better it should go. What do you think of a shield?”

Wing looked at the tense, shivering frame of his captive, his ward and cycled his vents in a sigh.

“Others to form a physical barrier between Drift and prying optics? That should help.” The jet steeled himself, turned his back to Drift and spreading his flightpanels in a defensive gesture. “If they can make it less obvious what they’re doing that would be better. Thank you, Blackbird.”

The seeker nodded, squeezed Wing’s arm and left to spread the word. Wing settled in to wait out the time allotted for Drift’s punishment.

_This is no penance. This is torture._

It was one of the worst days of his life.

As word spread throughout the Citadel the curious and confused glances aimed in Drift’s direction slowed, stopped and then underwent a curious reversal where it seemed as if someone had seeded the area around them with attention deflectors. Wing welcomed it as he welcomed the other Knights, all with tall, broad frames or wide wings who stood beside him, facing the atrium and using their mass to block Drift from view. He tried to respond when they spoke to him but Wing wasn’t able to concentrate on the conversation for long, processor focused on the mech behind him.

Time crawled.

Every time Wing checked on Drift the speedster was worse. The second time Wing turned to look the speedster’s optics were offline and his spike was fully retracted with the secondary protective cover closed firmly. Wing even caught the primary pelvic armour making a few abortive attempts to close. Each time it hit the false spike lodged firmly in Drift’s valve the speedster would jerk, optics flaring online again with a fresh surge of unconcealed panic that seared Wing’s spark with guilt.

Even though there was no sound from inside the box Wing could tell that Drift’s vents were running on full, dumping the heat created by his state of extreme stress. The massive puddle of lubricant beneath him rippled in the breeze created by the speedster’s fans, drying into a thin layer of gunk that warped and cracked when he moved.

Halfway through the day Axe arrived, bringing energon for Wing. When the older Knight saw Drift his calm Field fractured into a jumble of shock/denial. Wing had to make a grab for the cube before the other Knight dropped it, tracking Axe’s horrified stare to see what had caused his reaction.

When he saw, Wing dropped the cube. It fell to the ground and splattered everywhere but neither Knight moved to get out of the way of the mess. One of Wing’s hands rose to cover his mouth and the other reached out towards the speedster, gently touching the glass in front of Drift’s Spark.

“What have we done?” Wing’s glyphs were filled with static.

Axe didn’t answer, his Field dense and sober as he turned on his heel and strode away. Wing didn’t acknowledge him, optics fixed on the slumped grey-and-white form of Drift and the tears running down the empty, broken expression on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess that's why the call it window _pane_...  
>  ('Pane' and 'pain' are hononyms in English)


	5. [Chapter Four] One Step Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horror upon horror, until nothing else is left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: [One Step Closer, Linkin Park.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qlCC1GOwFw)  
> I felt that this song fit for both both Drift and Wing in this chapter.

Drift had stopped thinking a long time ago.

It was safer not to think, not to remember. Just go away inside and pretend this wasn’t happening.

_It’s only my frame, it’s not me. It’s not me._

But it _was_ him.

As Wing had been trying to teach him, Drift knew that his Spark and his frame were a linked system; what affected one affected the other. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t distance himself any more, couldn’t make that vital split in processing in the same way he used to.  Every time he almost had it, something kept pulling him back.

_No no no no no_.

He could only endure. Endure and hold onto the last shreds of his sanity with psychological denta and claws.

_Let me out let me out please someone make this_ stop _._

There was a change in airflow; a cool breeze in the hot, close space that had become his entire universe. The first brush of an apologetic, sorrow-filled EMF stunned him so much he forgot to vent. Someone reached in, neatly cutting the ropes that had worn deep grooves into the enamel of his armour. For a moment he hung suspended and trembling on the knife-edge between disbelief and the knowledge that he was no longer restrained.

Then someone touched him and he snapped.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Wing sagged with relief as Axe returned with several Knights and medics in tow. He stayed where he was, shielding Drift with his frame as Axe unlocked and opened the penance box. From past experience Wing knew that the sudden change in airflow and the return of external sounds and EMF contact could be overwhelming. He braced himself, not sure what he was expecting but anticipating something, _anything_ from the obviously distraught speedster.

Hot air poured from the box and Drift didn’t even twitch.

_This is bad_.

Wing balled his hands into fists, leaning on the clear glassteel pane and watching as Axe reached around Drift to sever the ropes binding him with quick, neat flicks of a thumb-length blade that he kept well clear of the trapped mech’s armour.

All throughout this Drift stayed absolutely still, faceplates blank and devoid of life except for the damp tracks of tears on his cheeks and a thin dribble of energon flowing sluggishly from where he’d bitten through his lower lipplate.

It wasn’t until Axe touched him that Drift finally reacted.

The instant the older Knight’s hands brushed white armour the speedster exploded, thrashing and flailing with all the desperate strength of a cornered mechanimal. Axe backed away, raised hands kept well clear of his weapons but Drift didn’t calm, struggling to rise with legs that would have gone numb hours ago in the cramped kneeling position. Medics rushed forward, shoving Axe aside easily but unable to get past the defensive slashing of Drift’s claws or catch hold of a hand or wrist long enough to use it to restrain him.

A horrible noise reached Wing’s audials and he realised with a shock that it was coming from Drift. The speedster was moaning low in his vocaliser as he fought against unresponsive limbs to pull himself up off the false spike.

The layer of dry lubricant on the Decepticon’s thighs and the floor of the cage crackled and flaked away as he thrashed and floundered, keening like a dying thing. His optics snapped online; a blazing and sightless, soulless blue that held nothing of sanity as a fresh trickle of pink started to slide down the long-dry dildo still buried in his valve.

There wasn’t a hint of anything like arousal in the edges of Drift’s EMF.

_Oh, no. Oh no no no this_ can’t _be happening._

Wing was forced to watch helplessly as Drift slipped, legs giving way and sliding out to the sides. Clawed hands screeched over the glass of the penance box as Drift’s hips slammed to the floor with his full weight forcing the entire shaft of the false spike deep into his valve.

Everyone watched in shock as Drift erupted with a gargling howl of agony, launching his frame up and back in an arc that sent his helm smashing through the top of the box.

The sound of shattering glassteel echoed through the silent atrium, everyone present transfixed by the nightmare unfolding before them. Wing’s optics locked on the energon-soaked ruin between Drift’s thighs as the speedster teetered on his pedetips for a long, agonizing moment before succumbing to gravity and crashing onto the floor, landing on his back. The impact knocked the air from the speedster’s ventilation system with an audible wheeze. He lay stunned while the medics shot into motion, converging on the injured mech.

Once again, the instant someone touched his plating Drift exploded into motion; a slashing, biting, kicking fiend surrounded by a feral EMF containing nothing but wild fear, desperation and a desire for escape that was so strong Wing could almost taste it. Three standard tranquiliser shots were needed to bring him to stillness, another two before he went limp and finally slipped offline.

Redline was the only medic willing to risk jacking into Drift’s medical ports, and whatever the readouts showed made the normally calm mech’s Field boil with rage.

When the speedster was stabilised for transport to surgery Wing stepped up to one end of the stretcher with armour and flightpanels flaring aggressively. Nobody argued with him, nor did they try to chase him from his self-appointed guard duty outside the doors of the surgical suite. Again Axe brought him energon while he waited. The older knight tried to speak but Wing turned off his audials, refusing to listen.

He didn’t want false words of comfort or the sympathy he could feel in Axe’s Field.

_I should have_ prevented _this._

Wing was grateful that Dai Atlas never appeared; he was the _last_ mechanism Wing wanted to see at that moment. Wing honestly wasn’t sure what he’d do next time he saw his mentor, as right now he simply didn’t trust himself not to try to kill the larger Knight.

Repairing Drift’s valve wasn’t a long procedure and the speedster was wheeled out of the surgical suite without a single trace of his ordeal left on his plating, even the rope grooves filled in and sanded smooth.

The heavily sedated fuzz of Drift’s EMF was so much like recharge that Wing felt his Spark coil in on itself with a combination of relief and guilt. He trailed along behind Redline as the medic took Drift to one of the intensive care rooms and transferred him to the comfortable slab of the medberth, attaching several monitors to various points on Drift's frame. Wing shook his helm when the medic spoke, planting himself beside the berth and resuming his vigil as the other mech left.

_I’m not failing him again_.

Eventually Wing was forced to leave when he nearly fell asleep on his pedes, Aequitas silently backing up the on-duty medic who ordered him out. He staggered from the medical building, barely making it to his quarters before collapsing into a fitful, nightmare-filled recharge.


	6. [Chapter Five] Leaving Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath is uglier than anyone could have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is '[Leaving Hope](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-GwX5x1cio)' by Nine Inch Nails

When Drift awoke after surgery he sat up, opened his pelvic armour and tried remove his entire interfacing array with his bare claws before anyone realised what was going on.

It took three medics to restrain him while a fourth pumped enough tranquilisers into his systems to down a shuttleformer.

After that he was restrained, sedated and put on suicide watch.

According to Redline the creepiest thing about the whole incident was that Drift didn’t make a single sound, not even when he’d had a full set of battle-grade claws sunk deep into the protoform around his array.

“And I know the sensors in that area were fully operational and connected to his neural net; we double-checked everything before bringing him back up.” The shaken medic confessed to Axe over high grade later that evening.

Drift didn’t move for weeks after that.

Not even when the medics undid his restraints to exercise his limbs in order to keep fluids in his hydraulics and joints from settling, or when they inserted a heavy-duty feeding line to keep him from starving.

Even though Drift didn’t respond to voices or EM Fields they knew when he was awake; his systems would cycle up and his optics brighten to a dim blue glow. His Field would go from the numbness of drugged sleep to a flat, apathetic sludge nobody but the most determined could endure contact with.

So far as the medics could tell there was nothing _physically_ wrong with Drift; the damage was purely psychological. What everyone knew but didn’t dare voice was that New Crystal City didn’t have anyone capable of dealing with this level of trauma.

When leaving Cybertron they simply hadn’t thought it necessary to recruit anyone with the skills to do so.

The consequences of Drift’s punishment sent ripples through the Citadel, ripples that spread until eventually they permeating every level of the underground city. Wing didn’t pay any attention to what people were saying, spending as much time as he could at Drift’s bedside, talking about everything and nothing even though Drift never gave any sign that he was aware of the jet’s presence.

He fell asleep there exactly once, waking with his helm resting on the medberth beside Drift’s forearm and a grumpy medic pinching one of his flightpanels.

After that they took to timing Wing’s visits and chasing him out after a few hours.

Vaguely, he was aware of Dai Atlas undertaking a public penance for his offenses against Drift. It was unimportant. Nothing the Citadel could command would be enough to satisfy his desire for vengeance on Drift’s behalf.

Wing was in the training hall when Dai Atlas came to apologise for bringing harm to his ward. The jet was practising solitary forms with a single-minded ferocity he hadn’t displayed in years. He stopped long enough to hear the older Knight out but couldn’t bring himself to speak civilly to the mech, choosing instead not to say anything at all and waiting silently for the triplechanger to leave.

It took Wing six days to repair the damage he did to the training room after Dai Atlas left.

Six full days of nonstop labour; even with covert help from Knights who weren’t supposed to aid him.

Two months after the incident Wing was leaning against Drift’s medberth, looking down at his pedes and aimlessly describing proposed changes to one of the public parks Drift had shown interest in. The medics had given Drift’s frame a wipe-down earlier that day and the room still smelled of solvent. It brought back memories of the day before Drift’s torturous punishment, when he’d taked Drift everywhere he’d ever appeared interested in and treated the speedster to a professional detailing.

Drift had looked almost happy after that detailing; quietly satisfied and full of life.

A stark contrast to the corpselike thing he had become.

_This is all my fault. I should have tried harder._

Wing dragged a callused hand over his faceplates and sighed. According to his chronometer the medics would be coming to kick him out soon.

“I’m sorry Drift.” Wing’s voice was quiet, barely loud enough to be heard over the machine quietly feeding energon into Drifts’ frame. “I should have tried harder to get Dai Atlas to accept me in your place. I’ve undergone it before; I knew what to expect. I had hoped…” Wing shook his helm, feeling his optical mechanisms fill with a thin lubricant. “What I hoped doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have dragged you here to the city at all. You’re not meant to live in a cage, and that’s what this place is. It’s a cage, and you didn’t get to choose like we did.”

It was hard for Wing to suppress the urge to keen; it felt like he was saying goodbye.

“You never got to choose. I took your freedom from you and then I failed you. There is _nothing_ I could ever to do make it up to you. I don’t even have an excuse for doing what I did. Call me stupid if you like but there just seemed to be something _special_ about you and I didn’t want you to go running straight back into that war just to die. Maybe… maybe I should have; because if I had, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Drift’s Field flickered and Wing assumed the speedster was slipping into recharge as he often did when the jet was there. Cautiously, Wing swiped the back of his hand across his optics, checking it for tell-tale signs of wetness.

If the medics knew he’d been crying in here they’d reduce the amount of time he was allowed to visit.

Again.

He nearly shot through the ceiling in surprise when Drift spoke. Two glyphs, hoarse and nearly incomprehensible with static.

“Not… special.”

Hardly believing his audials, more than half-convinced he’d passed out standing up and this was a recharge delusion, Wing gripped the edge of the medberth for support as he turned and looked at Drift.

The speedster was looking at him; _actually_ looking. His optics were brighter than they had been in months and _they_ _focused on Wing_.

“Not special.” Drift croaked again, fluid pooling in his optics.

Slowly, Wing relaxed his grip on the edge of the berth, sliding his hand across the top until he could touch the tips of Drift’s fingers with his own. Drift flinched and Wing pulled back, leaving space between their hands but staying as close as he dared. His Spark felt like it was going to explode from his chest and the Knight wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.

The first words Drift had spoken since being locked in that box and it was _this_. The first signs of life he showed in months and it was to deny his own worth.

Wing forced his response out through a rebellious vocaliser, shaping a rough crackle into words.

“You are, Drift. You _are_.”


	7. [Chapter Six] Siúil A Rún

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift claws his way back into the land of the living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is '[Siúil A Rún](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rHLxnuYUYU)'

Drift emerged from catatonia angry, lashing out at everyone.

_Leave me the frag alone_.

They didn’t, and it was infuriating.

It was a long time before the medics allowed him to be free of the physical restraints, even longer before he was allowed to be free and unsupervised. For weeks he wouldn’t allow anyone to touch him, barely tolerating EMF contact and attacking anyone who pushed the limits of his patience.

Not that he had much patience these days.

His first unsupervised trip to the washracks was made particularly memorable by the way he locked himself in and jammed the door so nobody could get at him while he was in there. By the time they managed to get the door open he had used up all the hot solvent and was almost ready to come out on his own, anyway. Drift emerged dripping wet and glaring, feeling almost clean for the first time in longer than he could remember.

When he was finally allowed out of the restraints for good he celebrated by pushing 'his' medberth into the corner and recharging on the floor underneath it.

He felt almost safe, but there was something missing.

As his sedative dosage decreased Drift became more restless, almost to the point of climbing the walls until Redline all but threw him at a racetrack and told him that if he stopped before 50 laps there would be trouble. It was absolute bliss and Drift lost himself in it, letting the exertion of  _speed_ and the air whistling over his chassis blast away the clinging memory of too much stillness. At one point he thought he saw Wing and a dark blue seeker talking to Redline, but by the time he whipped around the corner to face that section of the stands again the medic was alone once more.

That night Drift realised what he had been missing and set out to find it again.

It was pathetically easy to ambush Wing. All he had to do was wait outside the jet’s apartment and Wing walked right up to him before he realised there was anyone there.

The first word out of Drift’s mouth surprised both of them.

“ _Why?_ ”

The Knight stood there gaping at him, Field a riot of mixed emotions.

Drift tried again.

“Why would you want to do that for me?”

He wasn’t even sure what he was asking, but Wing seemed to understand.

“This would be easier to talk about inside.” The jet said, armour rippling. “That’s if you want to come in, of course.”

Drift jerked his helm in a nod and followed the jet into the familiar apartment.

_Haven’t been here since…_

It was much the same as he remembered, except that Wing seemed to have become a lot less tidy than Drift remembered. He ignored the mess and flopped on the couch as if the past few months hadn’t happened, relaxing into the familiar comfort. Wing stayed standing, optics roaming the room as he looked everywhere except at Drift.

“So… why?” Drift asked again, trying to sound casual but it came out confused instead. “Why did you try to get Dai Atlas to let you take my place? I _know_ you didn’t know about my valve; I saw the look on your face. It was pretty fragging obvious you had no idea. You said you’ve gone through it before… so why the slag would you volunteer to do it again?”

He wanted to ask why Wing would do it _for him_ but memories of the box crowded into Drift’s processor and he forced them back with an effort. He felt something odd in Wing’s Field and looked up to see the Knight watching him with a strange look on his face.

“You told me a little of your past and... sometimes you talked in recharge.” Wing offered the information reluctantly, almost sounding as if Drift was dragging the words from him under torture. “Between those two things I knew that it would go badly if you were to undergo that penance.”

Drift snorted, deriving some dark humour from Wing’s words.

“Yeah, _badly_. That’s the understatement of the millennium.” The flash of amusement faded quickly and Drift sat up properly. Satisfying the need to know was suddenly more important than pretending this was all casual friendly chatting. “But why the rest of it? I remember you talking to me a lot in the hospital. And I mean a _lot_. You didn’t have to do _that_ either. So, _why?_ ” He spread his hands helplessly, trying to make sense of a situation that didn’t fit with anything he knew of the universe or his place in it, silently pleading for an answer he could understand.

Wing’s flightpanels drooped against his back, their normal tidy tuck long gone. His Field was full of sorrow and a thread of that guilt that made Drift want to punch him.

“I did it because... because what happened was wrong. I wanted to help you and didn’t know how.” Golden optics looked up from under a scuffed forehelm guard and Drift suddenly realised that the jet looked _tired_. “Even if you don’t consider me a friend Drift, I still see you as one. As a _friend_ , not a ward or a burden but as someone I care about deeply. I tried everything I could to help you both as a guardian _and_ as a friend and it _wasn’t enough_.”

It looked like he wanted to say more but Drift cut in.

_Seriously_ don’t _have time for an extended guilt trip right now._

“It’s more than anyone’s done for me for a long time. I still don’t understand _why_.” Drift stood up and shook himself, pacing restlessly. “This friends thing, in the ‘Cons these days it means someone you can trust to have your back in battle and not stab you in it while you recharge. On the streets it was someone you trusted, more-or-less.” Gasket’s faceplates flashed across his consciousness but that was different; in the parlance of the Dead End Gasket had been _family_. “I don’t get what it means _here_.”

Unlike the medics who’d try to get him to sit down, Wing seemed happy to let him pace and Drift tried to project his gratitude when he came close enough for EM contact.

_Nothing worse than being told to sit still when you need to_ move _._

That was another thing; he didn’t mind Wing’s EMF. Besides Redline, the jet was the only other mechanism now whose Field didn’t set Drift on edge after a few seconds. He could tell Wing was listening, that he was paying attention and thinking about what Drift was saying even if he didn’t make a sound.

“I just… I _don’t_ _understand_.” It came out sounding far more plaintive than Drift wanted and he stopped pacing, looking at Wing with all the confusion and frustration he felt clear in his Field.

“I’m not sure if I can explain it in a way you’d understand.” Wing said slowly, choosing his glyphs with obvious care. “Our backgrounds are so different that I might accidentally confuse you more if I tried. The best I could do is try to show you. _Properly_ this time.”

Drift tilted his helm to the side, frowning at Wing as he thought it over.

“On one condition.” He said flatly.

“What condition?” Wing asked cautiously.

“That if something that fragged up is going to happen again you will _tell_ me what is gonna happen.” Drift said emphatically, one hand slicing through the air in a chopping motion. “I don’t _care_ if it’s against some stupid rules or something. You _tell_ me; don’t let me go in blind.”

The jet flinched.

_Yeah, that whole not-telling-me thing could have gone a lot better but that slag’s in the past now._

“Deal”


	8. [Chapter Seven] See Who I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift and Wing navigate this 'friendship' thing and Drift is forced to deal with his unfinished business with Dai Atlas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is '[See Who I Am](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hk_Kt6AvILs)' by Within Temptation.
> 
> I headcanon that Dai Atlas' Greatsword is named for the Roman god [Quirinus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quirinus)

When the medics got tired of having Drift around –or decided he truly wasn’t a danger to himself anymore- they kicked him out of the intensive care room he’d been living in and he moved back in with Wing.

But not as a prisoner this time.

This time Drift was a true cohabitant and possible friend.

He was unspeakably glad to escape the medical ward; although contending with the jet’s guilty act and his newfound untidiness resulted in Drift losing his temper several times. When Wing _finally_ stopped treating him as something fragile and snapped back at Drift the speedster actually laughed, finally confident that this friendship thing of Wing’s might actually work.

Things got a little easier after that and they settled into a comfortable routine, training and talking long into the night as they tried to find common ground to work from. During this time Drift discovered that Wing’s version of friendship involved a lot of things he had expected, as well as several things he hadn’t.

And one thing in particular he _definitely_ didn’t like.

Wing forcing him to speak to Dai Atlas.

Drift didn’t care about whatever guilt trip the triplechanger was on; the _last_ thing he wanted to do was see the mech.

Nobody was going to let him wriggle out of it though, least of all Wing. After several spectacular shouting matches Drift bowed to the inevitable.

The meeting happened on neutral ground with Redline supervising.

Drift eyed Dai Atlas warily. The massive Knight was subdued; his Field barely extending to the minimum level this city full of lunatics required for politeness.

Drift didn’t want to be polite. He didn’t want the triplechanger here. He didn’t want to see his pathetic frame language or feel the guilt in his Field. He wanted the mech _gone_.

_Just leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough damage already?_

“Don’t waste your energy apologising.” Drift snarled, taking refuge in anger and hoping to force the other mech to leave sooner than he’d planned. “I won’t fragging accept it.”

Dai Atlas flinched from the acidic rage and hate Drift was projecting at him, but the mech held firm. He nodded.

“I understand.”

“ _No you don’t_.” Suddenly Drift was on his pedes, shouting and advancing on the Knight with his battle claws extended. “You don’t understand _slag_.”

The Knight didn’t move. He sat stoically, waiting patiently for Drift to strike him. A sickening moment of realisation washed over Drift.

 _I could take his fragging optics out and he’d sit there and take it. He_ wants _me to, so he can feel less guilty._

Drift hesitated; torn between a desire to hurt the triplechanger and unwillingness to give the Knight the expiation he obviously craved.

“I have come to tell you that my punishment for the wrong I have done you is entirely in your hands.” Dai Atlas’ voice was smooth and even but Drift could feel the tremor of uncertainty in his Field.

“ _Liar_.” He threw the word at the Knight, feeling vindictive satisfaction when this time Dai Atlas actually flinched. “Your rules and your fancy Greatswords are in charge of that, _not me_.”

“It is the truth.” Dai Atlas was relentless, speaking over Drift when the speedster tried to interrupt. “There is no precedent for this situation and Quirinus has made it clear that you decide. Anything you with to do, anything you name, so long as it will not result in my deactivation.”

When the meaning of the Knight’s glyphs processed Drift felt a delicious thrill at the sheer amount of power he now had over the mech in front of him. It was a familiar sensation, one he had become intimately familiar with in the days before Megatron took him into the Decepticons, when he had learned how good it felt to kick those who had once kicked him.

 _Anything that won’t deactivate him_ …

The possibilities danced and spun through his processor, energon-tinted fantasies of revenge. Something about the expression on his face or the feel of his uncontrolled EMF alarmed Dai Atlas, but the mech must have had struts of titanium or his martyr complex was bigger than Drift originally thought, because he stayed absolutely still.

Abruptly, Drift’s lust for revenge faltered.

_I could do all those things to him but he still wouldn’t learn anything. He’ll just walk away feeling all better about himself because he thinks he paid his debt to me. He won’t have to carry any of that inside, not like…_

The perfect idea unfurled within Drift’s processor like an explosion in microgravity. He smiled, baring his denta in a feral grin of delight. Dai Atlas actually leaned away from him, worry finally flickering through his Field.

“Alright, I’ll play this little atonement game of yours.” Drift said slowly, relishing the anxiety visible in the set of Dai Atlas’ armour as he enunciated every glyph clearly so there could be no mistaking his meaning. “I will show you, over hardline, _every single thing_ that made your sick little box a living Pit for me.”

“I…” Dai Atlas tried to interrupt but Drift overrode him, feeling stronger than he had in weeks.

“ _You’re_ the one who wants me to play by your rules. _You’re_ the one who wants to do this.” Drift pointed out ruthlessly. “I’ve told you what I want; it’s that or try to live with your guilt, if you think you can.”

The triplechanger looked as if he would have preferred it if Drift raped and mutilated him. His Field withdrew but he held optic contact and nodded stiffly.

“Alright.”

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

Two days later they met to carry out the procedure.

The rules had apparently allowed for a public punishment but Drift didn’t want a bunch of strangers staring, so they were in one of the medical rooms with Redline as officiating medic and several Knights in attendance to act as witnesses. They stood in a grim, silent line as Drift and Dai Atlas plugged hardline datacables into a piece of medical equipment the speedster had never seen the likes of before.

_Some kind of buffer that will let me upload the files as fast as I want and give them to Dai Atlas as fast as he can handle them. Heh, that’s going to be fun to watch._

Drift was absolutely certain that the triplechanger wouldn’t be able to handle what he was going to show the big mech at a normal file transfer speed. They both sat on medical berths with the buffer between them; Drift lounging with as much nonchalance as he could summon and Dai Atlas sitting aggressively upright, his ramrod-straight spinal struts looked incredibly uncomfortable. The Knight had his Greatsword balanced across his knees. Drift glanced at the weapon and looked away quickly, trying to make the movement look natural. The gem in Quirinus’ hilt was glowing with a soft inner light that made Drift uncomfortable; he got the strange sense that the Greatsword approved of his decision.

When Redline was satisfied with whatever readings his scans showed, the medic nodded to Drift.

“You may begin when you are ready.”

Drift had been mentally preparing himself for days leading up to this, so all he had to do now was initiate the file transfer. Settling himself more comfortably on the medberth, Drift cycled his vents and let his optics slide to half-power before cueing up the first memory and sending it along to the buffer.

What he showed Dai Atlas over the course of the penance was nowhere _near_ everything in his memory banks; only the worst of it. The things that had made that Unicron-spawned box one of the worst hells that Drift had ever endured. Dai Atlas lasted longer than he’d thought the mech would but after four files he began to falter. The buffer cut in after seven, about when Drift was sharing memories from the time when had finally learned to divorce his mind from his frame and just wait for the mechs using him to be done.

And still it continued.

More memories of the streets, then the Decepticons, the relief of removing his valve assembly and the airless, Spark-squeezing panic of finding that it had been reinstalled.

Then every single nanoclick of Drift’s time in that box.

It took the triplechanger hours to get through them all. He began sobbing quietly long before he got to the self-surgery where Drift removed his own valve, at which point the Knight purged his tanks violently, leaning over the side of his medberth and heaving until nothing would come up.

Stony-faced, Redline mercilessly hooked the huge mech up to a drip to keep him online and they continued.

By the time Dai Atlas was finished he looked like a mech destroyed. Faceplates haggard, optics haunted, EM Field retracted and completely unreadable.

Drift’s Spark was in turmoil. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. He expected to feel vindicated and happy but instead he just felt tired, vaguely sick and wanted very much to be left alone. When Drift got back to the apartment he nodded vaguely at Wing, who shut his mouth on whatever he’d been about to say and projected a sort of warrior’s understanding as the speedster went straight to his berthroom and shut himself in.

The next morning Redline came to visit, checking on Drift and bringing with him a dataslug from Dai Atlas.

A dataslug addressed to Drift.

Using a forearm port Drift scanned the contents, a small text file informing Drift that the dataslug held memory files of what it would feel like to experience a valve-array overload willingly, with a lover. He could guess why the triplechanger had done this and he didn't appreciate it at all.

 _Aft_.

One of the medics Drift talked to during his convalescence had suggested that he do something like this. Apparently they weren’t going to remove his valve array before he’d dealt with the psychological trauma associated with it. According to the medics, doing so would just make everything worse for him in the long run.

So under Redline’s watchful optics, Drift uploaded and archived the contents of the dataslug without opening anything, crushing the empty dataslug to powder in his fist.

Drift wasn’t sure why he kept the files instead of deleting them when Redline left, but keep them he did.


	9. [Chapter Eight] Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift puts his pedes on the road to recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is '[Everything](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JvOmsK7FsB8)' by Shihad (this band is known as 'Pacifier' in the USA)
> 
> **Note:**  
>  ::Commspeak::

Drift couldn’t decide what to do with the memory files Dai Atlas had given him.

Besides Redline, who had been present, Drift hadn’t told anyone except Wing about them, confiding in the jet the same way he would have with Gasket. The jet’s concept of friendship seemed to be easier to figure out if Drift based it on what he had learned from the other streetmecha, with a few obvious differences based on the fact that they weren’t living on the knife-edge of survival. So he told Wing; the same way he would have told Gasket.

The jet’s reaction had been interesting; hard to decipher. Drift _thought_ he felt something like jealousy in Wing’s Field before he controlled it and asked Drift what he planned to do with the files.

“I don’t know. I might look at them one day, when I’m bored out of my processors and need a good laugh.”

Wing murmured something non-committal and changed the subject.

For a long time Drift forgot about the memory packet, too busy training with Wing and other Knights, enjoying the slightly haggard look on Dai Atlas’ faceplates whenever he caught sight of the mech in public.

After a while curiosity inevitably started to get the better of Drift.

During a particularly intense series of lessons where he was trying to master a complicated series of hand-to-hand moves with Wing he also found that he was beginning to look at his friend in a different light. Something Drift didn’t know how to name filled him as his optics traced the easy sway of Wing’s hips as the jet sparred with a holographic opponent, demonstrating hip-checks and throws. There was something hypnotic about the Knight’s smooth movements and the sway of skirting panels that made him want to see them moving in other ways, ways his processor still shied away from.

Three nights running the speedster lay on his berth and stared up at the ceiling of his berthroom, trying to work out what the frag this strange new feeling was. It felt like hunger, but it wasn’t. It was both similar to and completely different from the simple lust he was familiar with.

Drift figured it out when they were at the geothermal pools and Wing stood up, steaming water cascading down his frame and evaporating from smooth, aerodynamic red-and-white plating. His mouth went dry and his Spark pulsed with a return of that unnameable feeling and he felt his spike twitch with interest for the first time since the punishment. A tingle he didn’t want to acknowledge came from lower in his pelvic span and he sealed his vents, dropping under the water to hide his expression and mute his EMF in case Wing turned around.

_I’m attracted to him and I don’t just want to spike him, either. I want him_ in my valve _. Slag_.

That night Drift jerked off in the washracks and overloaded for the first time since the punishment, climaxing so hard he barely made it to his berth before falling into recharge. He woke the next morning with traces of lubricant still sticky in the seams of his thigh armour. It was a rest day and he wasn’t expected anywhere so Drift decided against getting up straight away, relaxing on his berth and trying to figure out what the frag to do about this newest development.

_I wonder…_

Unable to resist, he unarchived the packet from Dai Atlas and contemplated the solid shape of the memory files in his mindscape.

_Might as well see what’s in there_.

He cycled his optics in surprise to find there were only half a dozen files, all consisting mainly of sensory data with some limited visual and audial information.

_So if I want I can run it like a sim-program_ or _I could turn my optics off and pretend it’s happening to me… No._

Instead of running anything Drift closed the folder and deleted the entire file package.

::Wing?::

The jet answered immediately, sending him a meaningless jumble of glyphs.

::Wake up, it’s not _that_ fragging early.::

:: _Is_.::

::It’s not::

::Is too.::

And Wing shut off his comms.

_Aft. Time to be sneaky._

Determined to ask now, before he lost his nerve entirely, Drift got up and wandered into the jet’s berthroom. Wing was sprawled face-down on his berth, flightpanels splayed and twitching. Smirking to himself, Drift reached out and drew a finger along the leading edge of one white flightsurface at a pressure he _knew_ would feel like the worst ticking in the world and jumped back out of the jet’s range.

The reaction was perfect. Wing actually _squealed_ and flailed his way to the other side of his berth, lashing out blindly in Drift’s direction.

“Morning, flyboy.”

Wing glared.

“What do you _want_ , Drift?”

“Wanted to ask you something and you turned your comms off, idiot.” Drift sat on the edge of the berth, suddenly nervous and rethinking his decision to do this. “I… um… wanted to know if you could show me what a valve overload feels like when it’s not, you know…”

_Maybe I should have thought about what I wanted to say first_.

He risked a glance at Wing.

The jet was looking at him with undisguised wonder.

“You want _me?_ ”

Drift didn’t know what to make of those glyphs or the way Wing said them.

“I wouldn’t have fragging _asked_ otherwise, exhaust-for-processors.” He said and leaned forward to awkwardly press his lipplates against Wing’s mouth.

Wing froze and Drift was about to pull away, sure he’d done something wrong when Wing’s hand came up to cup the line of his cheek and the jet kissed back, moulding his frame to Drift’s with skill that left the speedster dizzy.

Somehow he ended up leaning against the wall, legs spread and Wing on his belly between them, kissing his way down Drift’s frame. In between kisses the jet murmured soft glyphs Drift couldn’t hear, intent clear in his Field where it bathed Drift in approval. The closer Wing got to Drift’s array the tenser the speedster became. His frame was on fire with lust that was both familiar and not; a steady pulse of need between his thighs joining the demands of his of his aching spike. It was confusing, everything moving too slowly for fear to win over the pleasure Wing was bringing him but just a little too fast for Drift to really make sense of it all.

_I'll figure it out later._

When Wing finally reached Drift’s erect spike he took his time licking and sucking the shaft, replacing his mouth with his hand when the speedster started begging. Then Wing was moving his mouth lower, to the soaked and twitching folds of Drift’s valve.

Drift couldn’t recall much after that, awash in pleasure broken by the occasional jolt of tension when Wing moved too fast. The first time it happened Wing tried to go back to his spike so Drift grabbed the jet by the helm and moved him back, squirming and threatening dire consequences if Wing didn’t repeat that thing with his glossa _right slagging now_.

It wasn’t perfect but it was as close as Drift could imagine anyone ever coming, overloading with Wing’s hand on his spike, Wing’s nasal ridge nuzzling his external node and Wing’s soft, agile glossa massaging the entrance of his passage. He shivered and wailed through wave after wave of pleasure as lubricant flooded from his frame to splash over Wing’s faceplates and pool on the berth beneath them, drying on their overheated armour in dull pinkish streaks.

They kept going until Drift couldn’t overload anymore, until all he could do was cling to Wing and shake with silent sobs while the Knight’s Field surrounded him with non-judgemental support. It was sticky and uncomfortable but by the time Drift was done crying and awkwardly pulled himself away from Wing he found his Spark felt a little lighter, even though the bizarre crying jag was embarrassing as Pit.

Courteous as ever, Wing pulled absorbent wipes from subspace and started cleaning Drift’s cheeks while Drift stole one and started on the mess he’d made of Wing’s face, studiously avoiding looking Wing in the optics as they worked.

“Drift?” Wing’s voice was soft, his Field concerned.

Now Drift raised his optics, meeting Wing’s gaze squarely, seeing worry reflected there. He knew that he was nowhere near healed, not yet. And after the way he’d just cried all over Wing he thought the jet probably knew it too. But despite the lingering sense of unreality surrounding what had just happened, Drift felt that he was closer to ‘better’ than he had been before.

“Well, that wasn’t completely awful.” He said, aiming for something of his old bravado.

Golden optics warmed, the soft dermal metal around them crinkling with a smile that made a corner of Drift’s lipplates twitch up in response. His smile grew when Wing responded with an amused sound and a single word.

“Good.”

_Yeah… good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Everything you needed in the world... you hold it in your hands_
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> Thank you to everyone who has read and commented and kept things civil while doing so. The current trend in online communities to pillory people who post uncomfortable material or simply have a difference of opinion from that of the _vox populi_ made me extremely worried about posting this fic. It actually sat fully finished in my harddrive for 3-4 months before I got the nerve to start posting it. The kind of rational, mature debate that happened in the comments was the last thing I expected and I am absolutely blown away by it. Thank you for being mature, decent human beings *heart emoji*


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